


Renegade with Wings

by thewriterofperfectdisasters



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, SPN!Verse elements, Wing!lock, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-13
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-25 08:05:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/636826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewriterofperfectdisasters/pseuds/thewriterofperfectdisasters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where anything is possible, and can happen to anyone, what are some people willing to do to get the people affected by genetic mutation? Some are useful, some not, some common, some rare. And then there are those that are extremely rare. Unheard of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Renegade with Wings

**Author's Note:**

> Hello c: I would like to mention that I have only a vague idea of where this is going.  
> I would like to thank my fantastic beta for this chapter, Maia (hi!).  
> 

_In a world where anything is possible, and can happen to anyone, what are some people willing to do to get the people affected by genetic mutation? Some are useful, some not, some common, some rare. And then there are those that are extremely rare. Unheard of._

****

*******

****

‘Come on, Watson!’ Anderson yelled down the hall. ‘Let’s get moving!’

John sighed and gathered up his equipment – restraints, stun guns, protective vest... Some days he hated the job more than others. Usually, he got to just go around the wards and cells, checking on patients and making sure they were adjusting before he was able to let them go. Though, every once in a while, he was called on to go on a hunt.

Hunts were the worst part of his job. Others loved them – the thrill of the chase and the bonus if you brought in your target quickly and quietly. John was happy just with his usual salary from attending to the people brought in by the... rougher hunters. In order to keep his job here, he had to hunt every three months. Mandatory.

When John caught up to Anderson, he was hyper with the job they had been given. Anderson was his hunting partner whenever John was forced to go, and although he was _always_ excited that he got to exercise his control over others in an attempt to bring them in, John had never seen Anderson’s eyes lit up with _so much_ excitement.

‘What are we after today?’ John asked, climbing in the van beside Anderson.

‘You’re never gonna believe it.’ Anderson revved the engine and started out the gates of the care facility. ‘They tracked down the Winger.’

John raised his eyebrow. He had never heard the term. ‘Winger?’ he asked.

‘The only one anyone has ever recorded seeing. On any records. Anywhere. And we’re hunting it down.’ Anderson sounded close to peeing himself with excitement.

‘Yeah, okay. But what is it?’

‘Winger. Wings.’ Anderson explained quickly. ‘We’ve known about it for close to eight months, but no one has ever gotten close enough to actually _catch_ it. Usually the Winger is careful with hiding his tracks. Slipped up a couple of days ago.’

John nodded. ‘So we’re after a person with wings?’

‘ _He._ It’s a guy. Not too old by the sound of it, either. Only in his twenties.’

‘Aha.’

‘You don’t sound too enthusiastic.’

John rolled his eyes. ‘I’m a Doctor. Not a Hunter.’

Anderson sighed, somewhat angrily. ‘You’re both. And don’t forget it.’

****

***

****

_Oh, shit._ Sherlock saw the Hunters coming from a kilometre away. Literally. He had been so careful covering his tracks – how had they found him? He thought back over the past few days of his activity. _Ah. The dealer._ Sherlock remembered that. He had flown straight from his dealer’s house to a little bit away from his own, directly over the “care” facility he knew he would be taken to if caught.

Sherlock turned quickly on his heel and walked back the way he had come, making sure to keep his wings tight against his back, and under his coat to avoid them being seen. He couldn’t risk ducking into an alley and flying away because from what he could see – and he _really could see_ – these Hunters had long range stun guns and good aim, knowing _that_ from firsthand experience.

He settled for walking swiftly and taking as many turns as he could, though on this road, that was less than likely to occur. This was a single, _long_ , stretch of road with no turns or other roads coming off it.

He cursed himself quietly. _Should have chosen a different way to get home._

Sherlock turned his head slightly to see the Hunters catching up. They were only about 300 metres behind him now, and this road wasn’t exactly crowded.

 _Options. Fly and probably get shot. Run and probably get shot. Continue walking at a leisurely pace, get stopped and questioned and definitely get shot._ Unless... _Run and they might leave you alone._

Sherlock decided he didn’t have much choice. He stopped and held his phone up to his ear as if he had received a call. He nodded once as if agreeing with the caller, before slipping his phone back in his pocket and breaking into a light sprint. He turned his head again to see that the Hunters had caught on to him suddenly running away from them.

 _Shit._ He ran faster. Sherlock turned once more to see that the Hunters were now only 200 metres away. _Fuck it._ Sherlock stretched out his wings, and saw the edges in his peripheral vision as his wings slipped through the imperceptible slits in his coat. He beat them twice before running up the front of a nearby car and leaping off the top.

Sherlock heard the unmistakeable sound of gunfire and flinched as a couple of bullets designed to break bones hit the outer edges of his wings. The bullets kept coming as his wings caught the air. Another few bullets hit closer to the centre of his wings as he began beating them faster to gain altitude and soar behind the cover of some clouds, struggling slightly to stay up.

****

***

_For the love of God._ ‘Looks like we lost him.’ John said, unable to keep the hint of glee from entering his voice.

Anderson scowled at him before they slowed to a halt. ‘Oh, please.’

They turned and went back the way they had come, jumping in their car and driving back to base. Once they were inside, Anderson directed John tend to his ward. ‘I’ll go report back. You’ll probably sound way too happy and get us reported for not doing our jobs properly.’ Anderson stalked off towards the section of the care facility outfitted with offices and a dispatch centre for whenever someone reported seeing someone obviously different, a.k.a, mutant.

John dumped his hunting gear back in his locker and shrugged on his white Doctor’s uniform and coat. He went past his desk to get some files for the patients he needed to check up on before going off to the solitary confinement ward for patients that were harmful to others.

Most of the patients that John treated had realised that he wasn’t their enemy – all but the patients who were somewhat mentally deficient due to a particular ailment or whatever mutation they had. Usually, these were the patients who could hear the thoughts of others and were unable to tune them out. The voices in their heads had driven them to partial insanity.

John walked up to the cell of one of his patients and knocked on the glass door in warning before swiping his key card to gain access. The door slid smoothly aside to give John room to enter.

 ‘Evening, Fiona.’ John said with a smile. ‘How are you today?’

Fiona, a small, brown-haired woman, sat on one corner of her bed, meditating. Fiona was one of the patients who could hear the thoughts of others. She, however, had learned to tune out others by way of meditation and keeping calm. She was in the solitary confinement ward because she had a habit of not only listening to people’s thoughts, but also of digging through their brains. This meant she knew things about people that they didn’t want known, and was therefore considered dangerous. She was also there because she had picked through the brains of several prominent politicians and gained knowledge of secret projects and services. That could not be risked falling into the hands of foreign governments, so she had been put here, out of harm’s way.

‘Hello, John. Been on a hunt today.’ She said casually, moving from the corner of her bed towards him.

‘Unfortunately.’ He wrinkled his nose. No use hiding his feelings about _that_. She knew already.

‘Oh, the Winger? Good luck with that.’ She stretched out her arm so that John could scan the chip imbedded in her wrist to check up on her vital signs.

‘Mm. Winger. Do you know much about him?’ John asked, pulling out the device for scanning chips.

‘Not much. I know that he’s pretty much a legend because he’s been... somewhat underground for about 20 years.’

‘Oh? He looked older than 20.’ John said, absently reading the information he was receiving.

‘Yeah...’ Fiona said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. ‘His mutation wasn’t always there. From what I’ve heard, he was born with weird little nubs on his back that started growing when he was a few months old.’ She shrugged. ‘Apparently they’ve developed and grown with him.’

‘Huh. Do you know of any other Wingers?’ John asked, writing down the updated information from Fiona’s chip into her chart.

She smiled. ‘Now, why would I tell you that?’

‘I can make sure you get the better food for a few months.’

She narrowed her eyes. ‘Four months of good food?’

John nodded. ‘Done.’

‘There was one other Winger, about 70 years ago. That’s why he’s not on your records. He was underground his entire life. Only the “mutant” community knew about him.’

‘Huh. Okay. Thanks.’ He smiled.

‘Update my food chart!’ Fiona called as he left the room.

John rolled his eyes. He _had_ promised. He tapped the door beside the key card slot and a screen burst into life. He clicked the “Diet” tab and entered the new information. _“Top grade diet, four months.”_

‘Thank you, John.’ Fiona smiled at him as he walked away.

****

***

****

_That was close. Too close._ Sherlock thought as he glided over London and landed on the roof of his flat. He opened the skylight window and dropped down onto his living room floor.

Sherlock carefully let his coat slip over his wings and onto the floor before he turned his head to see the damage his wings had sustained.

Apparently they had been more damaged than he had realised. Must have been the adrenaline that made the pain seemingly inexistent. He could tell that a few of the smaller bones at the very tips had been shot to pieces, and that a few of the bigger, more important bones towards the middle had also gotten at least a few fractures. _Jesus._

He picked his coat up off the floor and searched through it for his phone. He scrolled through his contacts list and selected the number of his brother.

‘Dear Lord, Sherlock. You were nearly caught. _Again._ ’

‘Yeah, I know. Thanks for pointing that out. I need your help.’

He heard Mycroft sigh heavily on the other end of the line. ‘What with this time, may I ask?’

‘I need an avian specialty vet or something.’

‘Why?’ Mycroft’s voice was tinged slightly with worry.

‘I have a few shattered bones that need tending to.’

‘Can’t you do it yourself? Like you _usually_ do?’

‘I can’t _reconstruct_ my own wings, Mycroft.’ Sherlock huffed.

‘Ugh.’ Sherlock could practically hear Mycroft roll his eyes. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Mhmm.’ Mycroft cut the line.

Sherlock put his phone down and with quite some effort, removed his shirt. He tried to flex his wings, and cringed at the burst of pain he received for his efforts.

He sighed and tried to fold them in. Again, he was rewarded with pain shooting up his spine.

So, Sherlock sat on his floor, wings half extended and waited for a knock on his door.

****

***

 

 _Knock, knock._ Finally, nearly three hours after his call to Mycroft, the avian specialist Sherlock had asked for was here.

Sherlock got up slowly, being careful not to agitate his wings, and opened his door carefully. He wasn’t prepared for the person in front of him. _‘Fuck, Mycroft.’_ He slammed the door, but the other man’s foot was already there.

‘No, no. It’s okay. I’m on your side.’ The man whispered.

‘Excuse you. You were _hunting_ me this afternoon.’ Sherlock hissed.

‘Yeah, I know. Doctor first and foremost. Hunting comes as a mandatory requirement.’

‘How much did he pay you?’ Sherlock asked suspiciously.

‘A small fortune in return for me risking my job to keep you away from prying eyes.’ He answered honestly.

Sherlock opened the door hesitantly before stepping aside to let the man inside. ‘I swear to God, I will _kill_ you if Hunters start knocking on my door.’ Sherlock said, completely serious.

John nodded. He seemed to get the actual threat behind that. ‘Understood.’

Sherlock shut the door and flicked the lock across before watching John’s eyes as he took in the sight that was Sherlock’s wings. He fluttered them nervously as John walked around him, looking at them from every angle.

‘Wow.’ John smiled at Sherlock. ‘I should probably introduce myself. Doctor John Watson.’ He held his hand out.

Sherlock took it and shook it once. ‘Sherlock Holmes.’ His wings fluttered again, a subconscious movement. ‘I take it you can tell where I was shot. Seeing as you did part of it.’

‘I wasn’t aiming to _get_ you, actually. You were swerving into my shots.’ John said, opening his kit.

‘You partner seemed quite intent on hurting me.’

‘He loves his job. It’s unfortunate.’ He pulled out a syringe of anaesthetic and motioned for Sherlock to turn around. ‘This could sting. I’m putting some anaesthetic into your wings so you can’t feel them being reset. Stay still.’ John pulled back Sherlock’s wing so he could get a the base of them to inject the serum. ‘It will only last for about half an hour, but it should give me enough time to set them. Ready?’

Sherlock nodded. The needle pierced his skin and he hissed as he felt it at the roots of his wings. _‘Jesus.’_

‘Sorry.’ John mumbled. ‘Give it a few minutes to kick in.’ He stared at Sherlock’s wings wondering how exactly he could get them to set without it being extremely awkward. ‘Can you stay in your house for a week or two?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘If needs be.’

‘Okay.’ He felt along the broken bones and sighed. ‘I am so sorry for what we did to you. The smaller bones I’ll need to splint rather uncomfortably, and the bigger ones will need the same. It’s probably going to take longer than the anaesthetic can last.’

‘That’s fine. I can take it.’

‘Mm... Are you sure?’ John sounded doubtful.

Sherlock nodded stiffly. ‘I can always take my own uh. Medicine to keep the pain away.’

‘Your brother warned me you might say that.’ John murmured. ‘You shouldn’t mix the two. I won’t be responsible for the consequences.’

‘That’s fine. Seeing as it’s _my_ choice what I do.’

‘Yeah, well, I’m your Doctor. You follow my rules.’

Sherlock sighed angrily. ‘Fine.’ He gritted his teeth. ‘Now hurry up and splint me.’

John rolled his eyes, but got out the necessary items anyway. He worked swiftly, trying to work within the time frame he had given, and sighed happily at his handiwork once he had finished. ‘Okay. Can you feel this?’ John asked. He flicked the top of Sherlock’s wings to test if he had regained feeling.

‘Yeah.’ He flexed his wings experimentally and tucked them behind his back. ‘That is so much better.’ He smiled. ‘I was beginning to get cramp from having them in that position.’

John chuckled. ‘Well, I’ll be back in a week or two to remove the splints, and by then the bones should have mended.’ John shut his kit and handed Sherlock a piece of paper. ‘That’s my card, in case you need to call me for whatever reason.’

Sherlock inspected the card.

 

_Dr John H. Watson, M.D._

_Doctor and Mutant Specialist_

Under which his cellphone number was listed, alongside his email address and home contact number.

‘ _Mutant_ specialist?’ Sherlock rolled his eyes. ‘Please. We’re not different. You have no right to claim that title.’

‘Comes with the job. Besides, you have _wings_.’

‘Oh really? That hadn’t escaped my notice.’

‘Look,’ John’s voice was suddenly cold. ‘I’m risking my job for you here. Pull it together or I’m reporting you, no matter how much your brother pays me. Got it?’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. ‘We have an accord, yes.’

 

***

****

Two weeks later, and it was time for John to remove the splints. He went back to Sherlock’s house and found the door waiting, open for him. Sherlock was sitting in a kitchen chair, sitting with the back in front of him so he could lean against it.

‘Hurry up, John.’ Sherlock muttered. ‘My wings have been in this position for two bloody weeks.’

John chuckled at Sherlock’s impatience and deliberately took his time to shut the door and get out any equipment he might need.

It took less time to get both splints off than it had taken to get one of them on. When John removed the final piece of the splints, Sherlock stood and shuddered. The wave of movement went through his entire body, shaking all his feathers and stretching his wings as much as he could in the confined space.

He muttered something about _“not enough space”_ before pulling up a step ladder and pushing himself through the skylight window. Sherlock stood on the top of his roof and fully stretched out his wings.

John clambered up a few moments after Sherlock and gasped when he saw the extent of Sherlock’s wings. They stretched out at least five metres either side of Sherlock and the glossy, raven black feathers shone in the midmorning sunlight. Sherlock moved them around, twisting them up and curving them down and around himself.

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, a manic, throaty noise. He ran across the rooftop and leapt off. His wings caught on a gust of wind and he soared towards the clouds, feeling the freedom he now had back.

John watched him fly, doing crazy flips and loops, disappearing behind clouds every few moments. He lost sight of Sherlock after a few minutes and searched the sky frantically for him. He heard the gentle _phwump_ of Sherlock landing behind him, and spun around.

Sherlock was standing, triumphant and grinning at John. He walked forwards and planted his hands on John’s shoulders. ‘Although you probably did this for the money, and not the thrill of helping someone, thank you.’ Sherlock pulled him forwards and roughly kissed John before pulling back. ‘Sorry.’ He tried to stop smiling, but couldn’t. Sherlock was just too happy to care if he made someone feel uncomfortable.

‘Um.’ John said, slightly dazed. ‘No, it’s um. Fine.’ He blinked a few times and returned Sherlock’s smile.

‘Oh, no. John.’ Sherlock’s smile faltered completely. ‘No, no. I consider myself married to my work. That was just... Heat of the moment.’

John looked confused. ‘What..?’

‘I am _flattered_ by your interest, but I’m not-’

‘Not gay.’ John finished.

‘I’m not anything. Labels don’t define me.’

‘Clearly.’ John muttered. ‘Wait, what work?’

Sherlock blushed. ‘I’m a Consulting Detective for the Metropolitan Police.’

‘You work for the police?’ John asked incredulously.

‘ _With_.’ Sherlock corrected.

‘And they haven’t noticed you have wings.’

‘I’m very good at hiding them. Detective Inspector Lestrade knows, however. He walked uninvited into my house once, and saw me without my coat.’ Sherlock explained. ‘But he decided to turn a blind eye to it seeing as I do most of his work for him. And for free.’

John nodded. ‘Makes sense. Senior official doing that though... He could lose his job.’

‘So could you.’ Sherlock said, raising an eyebrow. ‘Yet here you are.’

‘Mm, true. That’s _two_ people now risking their jobs for you.’

‘I know.’ Sherlock frowned. ‘Actually, it’s three.’

‘Three?’

‘My brother, Mycroft. He works for the British Government. I say works for. He _is_ the British Government.’

‘Is that how you’ve stayed underground so long?’

Sherlock nodded. ‘Somewhat. He just covers up any messes I leave behind. Pays off anyone who sees my wings.’

‘Nice brother.’ John smiled.

‘He just doesn’t want me being exposed, because I would be linked back to him. It’s self preservation.’ Sherlock shrugged. He walked back to the skylight and jumped down.

John followed him and sat on the couch. ‘Maybe it’s because he cares for you.’

‘No. Definitely what I said.’

John sighed. ‘Whatever you want to think. When he talked to me though, he genuinely sounded concerned.’

‘Good actor.’

‘Well, whatever. I should go. I start work in an hour.’

‘Okay. Thank you for your help.’

‘No problem. I’m always interested to help anomalies.’ That sounded harsher than he intended it to. ‘Sherlock, I didn’t mean-’

‘It’s fine, John. I know what I am.’ Sherlock smiled sadly.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so in case you hadn't already realised, this fic is on a semi-permanent hiatus, so don't go expecting updates any time soon. I'm horrible, I know.
> 
> Anyway, I'm on [Tumblr](http://im-not-his-keeper.tumblr.com/) if you want to come see me for any reason.


End file.
